Goodnight, Mr Hornblower
by Seas Incarnadine
Summary: For Horatio Hornblower, the night is full of ghosts and secret pleasures. Horatio/Archie. Indie Husbands. TW: suicidal thoughts, implied physical abuse and internalised homophobia.


_Goodnight, Mr. Hornblower_

By Seas Incarnadine

* * *

Night settled quickly over the ocean, like toppled ink soaking into parchment. Horatio took his post on the quarter deck, facing the bowsprit, and not far away, the flickering shoreline. He shuffled his cravat higher on his neck in hopes of disguising the bruises. Perhaps the murky evening would transform the tell-tale signs into shadows.

A song broke the surface of the deck; little eddies of music that swirled around Hornblower's ears before dissolving into the salty breeze. The men were singing down in the mess. He could hear Styles' booming baritone leading the tune, and an old accordion breathing raggedly beneath it. A tight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but gave way like rope snapping in a gale when the gash on his lip reopened. Horatio swiped his tongue over the cut, tasting fresh iron and swallowing it down quickly. The young man had come to learn the difference between boatswain and bulkhead during his brief time aboard the _Justinian._ Likewise, his mouth had learned the taste of bare knuckles, of sea sickness, and of kisses dressed in rum and shadows.

High above, the rigging of the foremast trembled slightly in the cooling wind. Like many nights before, he imagined himself up by the lowest yard, the cold air combing through his hair with the tenderness of a mother's caress. His boots would sway in the open air, and the polished buckles would clink like the tiniest of bells every time his feet touched. It would be easy sleeping in the night air, compared to the choking closeness of the orlop. Back and forth, back and forth he'd rock, lulled in the sky's frigid arms. Then he'd be wrapped in canvas blankets, and slid into the sea. He'd fill with water. It would rush inside his slackened jaw and into every corner, until Horatio himself was nothing but water: foam-tipped waves in the wake of others' journeys.

Hornblower gripped the railing, breathing hard. He watched himself dangle like a fish on a line against the shining windows scattered on the coast. The fantasy took its usual course. On the day his father would receive the letter, it would be sunny in Hythe. The bumblebees would be tumbling in the frothy yellow hollyhocks framing the study window. The doctor would be at his desk, sunlight catching his frosty, blue eyes, daring them to melt. He'd tear his knife through the top of the envelop in one surgical slash, and flip the notice open with a flick of his thumb. Would he cry? Would he stroke the thin, white page with quivering fingers? No, thought Horatio. The letter will surely burn, and then all the ashes will be swept away.

Kennedy might, though. Kennedy might cry if he died.

The midshipman felt his heart surge at the thought of his shipmate. He felt it just as keenly as the boot-shaped welt beneath his jacket.

"Hornblower?"

The young man jolted from his brooding and spun to the right. Clayton had climbed the steps from the main deck and was walking towards him, lantern aloft. Time had blown by outside the edges of his reverie, so that the black of night had swept fully over the ship, and the stars had taken their glittering seats in the sky.

"Are you… alright?" Clayton asked. He came to stand beside him, eyebrow raised.

A torrent of shame washed over Horatio for having been distracted from his watch, and the dark contents of his diversion. He forced his expression to soften and nodded in what he hoped was reassurance.

"I'm fine. Just… tired."

"Get some rest," Clayton advised, kind but commanding. He handed Horatio the lantern.

The man obeyed readily, mind and body hungry for a few hours of respite. He left his second self dangling from the foremast and made his way down into the bowels of the ship. Hornblower pushed aside the naked corpse laying prone at the bottom of the steps, and banished the one stuffed between the cannons as he moved quickly through the gun decks. Finally he reached the orlop, and breathed a sigh of relief. The orange flame of his tallow candle skimmed over the hammocks, revealing four other midshipmen already asleep. Horatio was grateful to find that Jack was occupied elsewhere, although a dark shape in the front row told him Kennedy was among his bedfellows. In his foolishness he almost smiled again, but this time he managed to remember the cut in his lip.

Hornblower hung the lantern on a hook in the ceiling and stripped off his layers until he wore only his shirt, legs like white smudges in the gloom below it. The man was just about to blow out the lantern and drag himself into his hammock, when a familiar noise disturbed the quiet of the cockpit:

First the choking, then the screaming.

Horatio spun on his heel and dashed across the short space to his shrieking friend.

"Archie!" he called, barely remembering to keep his voice down.

Hornblower felt for his shipmate in the dimness and took hold of his shoulders just in time to keep Kennedy from tumbling out of bed. The other sleepers made groggy noises of discontent and rolled over in their hammocks, but the shouting petered out into silent shaking before they could awaken.

"Archie…" Horatio called again. He stooped low over his friend and felt Kennedy's jittering breaths fog the air between them. The midshipman clutched one trembling wrist in his hand, and used the other to brush sweat-soaked hair from Archie's face.

Hornblower was helpless, as he always was on such nights. Kennedy was locked away, somewhere deeper than the hull of the ship, somewhere Horatio could neither reach nor imagine. The other boy buckled under his grasp and wheezed frantically through clenched teeth, eyes wide and bright in the darkness, but made no sign of feeling or seeing his shipmate. Hornblower could do nothing but crouch over his friend, swipe his hand over his brow, and whisper his name over and over, like a spell for summoning errant souls. Horatio's tiredness and the strain of hunching over began to make his knees wobble, but finally the fit slipped away as quickly as it had come, and Kennedy's quivering body went slack beneath him. Hornblower sank to his haunches in relief.

"You'll be the death of me," he chided softly, and mopped his hands over his clammy face.

"I should hope not."

Hornblower stood up again, aching limbs completely forgotten. He quickly retrieved the lantern from his bedside and stood over Archie's hammock. The midshipman would have usually fallen asleep after his ordeal, but tonight he gazed up at Horatio through bleary eyes and sported a limp version of his trademark impish smirk. The orange light of the lantern caught the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, and the wetness in his eyes.

"If you died, I'd have to take on some of your duties, and I've enough work to do as it is."

Horatio smiled back, lip be damned. It was true. What's more, if Hornblower left, there would be no one to weather the nights with Kennedy when his fits reared their ugly heads. Well, Clayton might do it, Horatio thought, if Jack allowed it, but Clayton feared Simpson more than he worried for Kennedy. Not to mention that Archie had once been Jack's favourite source of entertainment until Horatio had the misfortune of boarding the _Justinian_. Without Horatio, Kennedy would surely fall back into his favour.

"Well," said Hornblower, mustering his courage, "then I shall try not to die."

For a moment Archie didn't seem very sure of his promise, then his eyes softened and he waved one tired hand at his shipmate. "Come here," he muttered, almost too quiet to hear. Horatio's insides fizzed like a firecracker catching light. He blew out the lantern and followed the sound of breathing to Archie's mouth. Kennedy tasted like rum. His lips were warm and slow. Cleveland snorted in his sleep, and Archie's lips buzzed against his with repressed laughter. Horatio had to make Kennedy's mouth work double-time to keep him from chuckling aloud.

For the first time in many nights, Hornblower did not fall asleep contemplating his pistol, nor the sting of his shaving knife, nor the bruises he'd have to explain away in the morning. He climbed into his hammock imagining the day he could see Kennedy's face in the full light of a bedroom lamp as they drew together. Of the day Kennedy could laugh into his shoulder, and Horatio could laugh along with him, without a care in the world.

He decided he would live to see that day.

* * *

The _Horatio Hornblower_ novels are a creation of C. S. Forester, and the TV series based upon his books is a creation of Andrew Grieve. I do not claim to own the stories on which this fan fiction is based. This fan fiction is not written for profit, but for amusement and out of appreciation for the original content.


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